Signs of Ennui On The Island Of Boredom

Ah. What to say, what to do, how to transcribe the utter hatred and dissatisfaction and routine routine routine boring routine of life here on Soybean Island . . . This Island, this Kingdom, this Domain and Realm of Intransigent Listless Lethargic Monotonous Lassitudenal Doldrumable boring Tedium.

Yes.

If only I could escape this place. If only I had never been captured in the dark of night and drugged, dragged and beaten, forced to come here . . .

to live in this regulated and ignorance-groomed authoritarian land/society/agrarian-prison-camp where all life . . .

is an unauthorized verisimilitude of real life, free life, a life worth examining and thus living . . .

life a vehicle that should not be unattended or at least not attended by the invisible masters of this putrid agricultural-based golfing-insurance-salesman-corporate-controlled anal wasteland . . .

(Oh. The above seems to be an international sign saying: Nudists Sit Here)

No. No, I will not succumb. I will wallow in the appropriate and self-prescribed amount of self pity while all the time planning for my grand escape. I will do the bidding of the Eye-Nye-Hab Revolutionaries while at the same time mollify The Apparatus who control my world until my time comes.

Yes.

I shall.

I will feel better--someday.

Oneninefiveseven over and out and, as always:

Goodbye from Soybean Island

Obligatory Seasonal Report

Fall has fallen upon this fubar land. Yes, my fellows, the fields are now fallow and trees are festooned with fall colors before the leaves follow one another to the fair earth (or concrete) and fade, fade, fade . . . Fes. It is almost funny how fast fall falls on this facetious place of facades and fallacies and outright freakish lies. Yes. Fes. Funny indeed, like fake fallopian tubes twisted into forgone conclusions with future false fingers-of-fate forever directing the directions of the people sheeple steeple feeble weebles who will fall down. Fah fah fah . . .

Visit Soybean Island

My how pretty . . .

Please excuse the opening ramble. The babble. I think it is because winter is coming. Yes, it is only Autumn, but before you can look at your torn and sodden and sole-less shoes, winter will blow in with its frozen air and engulfing white snows and the pleasant sterility of subzero temperatures.

How I look forward to winter. The cold dead heart of winter. It is my favorite season here on Soybean Island. It is the season when I go quite insane . . .

Anyway, Fall:

Yes, it is not all bright yellows and oranges and reds and purples and squirrels hiding nuts. No. It is also browns and blacks and grey skies and dying dying dying and squirrels hiding nuts.

Yes.

It is skeletal trees and dreaded robins on their way out and teasing temperatures and the continual raking raking raking of the earth. It is when the indentured workers of The Homesteads harvest their dust to sell to the dust merchants who sell to the dust venture capitalists and make their money which turns into dust within their dusty vaults. Dust to dust to Soybean Island, as they say here. They being not me.

Anyway. More:

Yes. It's the season when the University of Soybean Island Fighting Snails spring (no, fall) into action. What action that is, exactly, eludes me. Yes the Fighting Snails (or, if you prefer, more poetically, the Transcendental Snails) are out there fighting on the fields kicking balls and blowing snot and who knows what. I certainly do not. And who do they have to compete against but each other--one group of ignorant prisoner-students against another group of deceived prisoner-students . . . Anyway, I've gone off topic.

How about some Fall vegetables?:

My how I would love to sink my rotting teeth into such vitamin-rich roots and pods. Yes. I salivate just looking at them and that is all I can do but look at them unless I find their moldy and withered cousins in a trash bin.

Ah, but I should not complain.

After all, I am now a secret agent working for the Eye-Nye-Habs against the race of Snailians who took this ugly land away from their ancestors. Yes. I must be careful what I say, but I continue to go about my business, waiting for instructions from the Habs and their revolutionary revolution plans. So that is why I post such banal information--information which directly correlates and connects and portrays the banality of this actual place!

Well. That's it. Until next time, if there is a next time--Goodbye from Soybean Island

#1957